


The Herald Preceded the Prince

by marybarrymore



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Metaphors, sibling bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marybarrymore/pseuds/marybarrymore
Summary: John Duke of Bedford, the English Regent of France, remembered his brother before his nephew's coronation.
Relationships: Henry V of England & John of Lancaster 1st Duke of Bedford
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	The Herald Preceded the Prince

**Author's Note:**

> The year is 1431

When the Duke of Bedford entered the chapel of the château of Vincennes, the king's choir was singing _Preco Preheminencie_.

He was tempted to ask them to stop at once and change it - songs in praise of John the Baptist were never lacking, so why sing the same all these years? Then he remembered that this seemed to be a rule laid down by his brother, and that no one had thought to change it or was too lazy to change it or dared not change it when the new king succeeded to the throne, so it had been kept, and it would not be good for him to interrupt. But as he had already entered the door, he could not at once turn away, for fear of dishonoring God. So he stood by idly, letting the high notes of the moete pierce his ears and vibrate in his head. Fortunately he arrived a bit late, as they had already sung "Precursor premittitur / populum parare," when he entered, and when he had gathered himself, he heard the end notes of "sequentis subsidium / sancti Salvatoris.", followed by the praise of John the Baptist. It was over, and the song of St. George, the _Miles Christi_ , soon began, an unfamiliar tune, probably Dunstaple or someone else's later work. But all he had was the melody of the former song going round and round in his head, and Harry's blurred face floating before him, pointing out to him the words on the manuscript and singing them out to him, laughing gently.

"Thou art St. John the Baptist, and I Christ? Don't you dare!"

He had often wondered what his brother was thinking when standing with Emperor Sigismund at Canterbury, listening to the choir praising St. John for England's victory. He was not there. Of course he was not there, he had just finished a great battle with the French fleet, and was returning to England through the Narrow Sea, battered by the storm. He was most probably dizzy and vomiting on the side of the ship as Harry stood solemnly in Canterbury Cathedral accompanied by the Emperor. He asked tactfully later and, learnt that Harry had asked about the victory and his wound, then took Sigismund to honour God for it without wasting a minute. I think Harry was pleased, Thomas said sourly, Come on, John, he must be pleased. Why wouldn't he? After all you relieved Harfleur. It's just that he's not wont to show it. You know our brother he....

He seldom laughed.

But that's only half of the story. Harry would occasionally smile at them, at his brothers and friends and those he tried to impress such as Sigismund, towards whom he was always generous and gentle, but would wear an indifferent, icy look when celebrating his victories, making it hard to guess what was on his mind. He should have asked Harry himself. He thought he might have got the answer if Harry had gone to Southampton to greet him ashore. Harry would probably kiss him and tell him he was proud of him and that he had done well. But when he arrived on the coast of England Harry was not there. All he saw was a jealous Thomas, who spoke with acidity and muttered, "Why should Harry send you to fight the French when I'm the one with the experience?" Because Harry loves me, he thought quietly, because Harry loves me, but he doesn't trust you. Harry and Humphrey have gone to Calais to negotiate with Burgundy, Thomas told him. But he, Thomas, was left alone in England to deal with the dull routine of everyday-business. All those rubbish about fishermen of England runing off to the North Sea for cod, and the King of Norway writing a letter of protest for such a trifle. He complaint and took John's hand as if he had seen the Saviour coming through the narrow sea. John I know you're good at these, he said, help me or I'll be flayed by Harry. How on earth did you put up with the Regency last year?

Of course he helped Thomas. He had no difficulty dealing with these common affairs. Even if he had, Harry was still in Calais, and all troubles could be submitted to the King for decision at his royal pleasure. But when Harry returned from Calais, new troubles ensued, and Harry complaint bitterly of Burgundy's duplicity and treachery, telling John angrily that he had tried to secure him a wife in the heiress of the Count of Hainaut. But the woman had disliked his looks, and the marriage negotiation went fruitless. He listened as Harry vowed to find a better bride for him, undisturbed, for he had known his marriage as part of Harry's grand plan. Besides, Harry would not make an unprofitable alliance for him, all he could do was to wait. It's just that affairs followed affairs and trouble add up to trouble, he never could chase after Harry like a kid begging for sweat, simply for a praise for his victory nearly six months ago.

Nor did he get a compliment out of Harry after all.

He still felt regret, now that he thought about it. Harry was a man of few words, and it was hard to get a word of praise from him. Even when John, assisted by Bishop Beaufort, successfully battered the council into agreeing to granting the king a grant for life, Harry returned with only a smile and a few compliments. It was even harder to get him to grant a reward, and even the Parliament, which had always been stingy, found it somehow beyond their tolorence. The Commons should have asked the king from time to time not to reward the unworthy ministers but to give each man his due. But in Harry's case, the king was a hundred times meaner than the them and forced them to change their ways, reminding the king roundly that his grant proved too shallow for the receivers' deeds. Of course Harry's more liberal towards grants later, but that wasn't necessarily the result of following the Parliament's advice, perhaps just because the French territories needed to be guarded.

"I'm penniless," Harry complained to him with a sigh after checking the accounts of the Duchy of Lancaster, "I can't follow our father's steps when he has rewarded people with one-third of the duchy's revenue by retaining indiscriminately. The king has to provide for the court's expenses and set aside money for millitary expediations so where can I find all the fief to reward them?" As he said this his eyes turned to Normandy, and granted Perche to Salisbury without a blink.

But even the Norman lands had nothing to do with him. He watched by with folded arms as Harry dictated the grants, and it was only after the King had reviewed all the grants the clerk handed him, it seemed, did he suddenly realize that there was someone beside him. Harry, with a somewhat guilty face, told him not to worry. John, you know you're my favourite brother, Harry had said, so be assured I will shortly give you your due. Harry said this in a sincere tone and a perfunctory demeanor, so it was hard not to feel like being cheated. But to the hell with it, John thought as he held Harry's hand. Even if he was cheated by Harry it was with his own accord. If Harry should speak to him more in that tone , he could have got to his horse and storm the walls of Paris in a moment. Besides, he was in no short of money, and territorial gain seemed a trifle compared with the honour gained through unwaivering loyal service.

Now he'd gotten all those titles and honours: the Duke of Alençon, Duke of Anjou, Governor of Normandy, etc. Titles piled on his head, and it took the herald a full minute to pronounce all of them. But no one would hold his hand and make earnest lies to him.

Harry had always lied to him. He'd lied to him when they were young, telling John to wait in Waltham for father to send for him, and he himself ended up as a hostage in Ireland; he'd lied to him when sent to crush the Welsh rebellion, telling John there was nothing to fear of, but he himself narrowly escaped death on the battlefield; he'd lie to him when he promised John to be his second-in-command, but left him alone with all burdens when he himself enjoyed the best tranquility. There were times when John, angered by the millitary disasters in France, wanted to fly to London to dig Harry up, to grab him by the collar and make him open his eyes and see to the mess he had left.

But no matter what Dunstaple's said, he was but human flesh and blood, not St. John the Baptist and certainly not Christ, and Harry was sleeping with his ancestors in the grand Abbey of Westminster, never to open his eyes to clean up the mess he had left behind. So in the end he was the only one who had to work to mend the broken pieces. Harry was the king, Harry was the chess player, and the generals were supposed to be pawns in his hands, to serve at his disposal. Harry will set everything up, they just have to do his bidding. Harry would have everything ready, they just had to do their parts and wait for their rewards. But Harry was gone, and overnight he became the player. A player, yet still a pawn, tossing and turning on the board, struggling to lay out his plans. The aristocrats fought each other under his nose, once comrade-in-arms, now fighting over fiefdoms and fighting to the death.

And he could not stop them, but took part in these feuds himself. He wondered what Harry would think of him, once a mediator, now striving to extend his dominions in France at the country's cost, as accursed by Humphrey. Harry would be disappointed, he thought, and yet he felt that Harry would understand the futility of holding the title of Regent without real power in his hands. He remembered Harry laughing at his audacity and turned to order Dunstaple's motet to be added to the choir's daily service. St. John blesses you, so I shall certainly ask him to be my mediator, said Harry, the herald goes before the prince - I shall wait for you to clear my way for me.

But he could only clear the way for a child now. The herald had a new master, King of England and France, a pale, delicate boy, with a thoughtful look on his face as he looked up at the donjon of Vincennes, his fingers trembling as John reached out to give him a kiss. Humphrey wrote to him in calm, chosen words, which was a rare thing in itself, considering how his younger brother had devouted himself to defaming him all these years. The king was fraile, his brother wrote, "Careful, should anything happens to the boy again, I'll make you pay for it."

Of course nothing would happen to him, the Duke of Bedford thought absent-mindedly, crossing himself as the _Ave Maria_ was chanted and he walked out of the chapel. Just see the caution with which the attendants around the king treated the boy, as if he was made of glass. He let out a faint laugh, but suddenly remembered the child's grandfather and reached out to make a quick knock on the oak door of the chapel.

But he felt that his inexplicable concern was unnecessary. The king was a good boy - perhaps too good to be true. Studious and intelligent, not bad at swordplay or jousting, and if there was anything to fault him for, it was a little too quiet for a boy of his age. Harry had never been so quiet when he was at this age, and it was not uncommon for he and his brothers to be chased by swans up and down the bank of the Mere, and he couldn't remember how many beatings they had had for their misdeeds.

He hesitated in front of the chapel and headed towards the donjon. It had been long since he had been in Vincennes, as he would even make a detour if he passed by, fearing that the image of the tall white tower would bring back painful memories. This time, if things could be done in his way, he would have avoided Vincennes. Tournelles he had already packed up and waited for the king's arrival, without any need for the royal court to lodge outside the city. But Cardinal Beaufort smiled and shook his head. The King's first entering his capital should be on a holy day, so why not wait for a day or two for the Advent Sunday? As for the king's quarters outside the city, Vincennes was a royal castle, spacious and comfortable, so there was no need to go any further. So the court moved on, and when he stopped his horse in front of the drawbridge, looking up at the king's banner raising from the donjon, he found that his return was not so unbearable as he had imagined. It was only when he turned to the king on his side, also looking up, that he remembered that nearly ten years had passed before he knew it, and that the pains and lamentations of that heated summer had all been smoothed by time, leaving only a faint trace.

Besides, he tried not to think of Harry all these years.

But he sometimes couldn't help thinking about Harry, especially now, as he sat on his bed in his room, the familiar view from his window stirring up memories. He hadn't planned to spend the night in Vincennes, for it was said that the spirits of the dead occasionally returned to their old haunts, and he feared that Harry's ghost might come through the door in the middle of the night and poke him in the forehead, asking what he had done to France: Reims lost and the so-called Dauphin crowned. He would not know how to answer Harry. But Beaufort stopped him and said he should enter the city with the king. I went beforehand to clear the way for Harry upon his first entry into Paris, he retorted. But Beaufort seemed to expect him to say so. Yes, yes, replied the Cardinal, but that was Harry's order, and you were not the soon-to-retire Regent then. What do you think people would imagine if you enter the city before the king, and the Parisians greet you more warmly than him? Now that the brother of yours is on the other side of the Channel, still wishing to catch you red-handed, it's harmless to be cautious for your own sake, isn't it?

So he sat in the room he had stayed in years ago, forcing himself as much as he could, the dusty memories slowly surfaced anyway. By the time he had hurried back to Vincennes Harry was gravely ill and had to leave matters to his care. When it wasn't his turn to attend to the King, he locked himself up in his room and dictated the paperwork imitating Harry's tune, tears slipping down his face as he read, dripping on the paper and staining the reports. He scrambled to wipe it with his sleeve, also stained with ink, but couldn't get it clean. He thought Harry knew, nothing could hide from Harry's eyes, although he always hid in his room after crying, cleaning himself up before he dared to go to Harry, to forced to smile at Harry's haggard and sickly face. But Harry smiled gently, tugged his cuff, reached out and pointed at the faint ink stains, and he could not help but wet his eyes, buried his face in Harry's bosom, sobbing silently. Harry gently caressed his back, the palm of his hand burned with heat, but without its usual strength.

"John, don't cry," he remembered Harry sighing softly in his ear, "It'll be fine. I'm here."

He thought God would save Harry, and Harry thought God would save himself, but God's salvation never came. Perhaps, as the hermit who had suddenly arrived and disappeared at Meaux declared, they had angered God, and God no longer guarded England and Harry. Harry calmly accepts the end God granted him just as he used to calmly accept the victories God gave him, with an indiffernt, icy look on his face.

"God's will be it." He said, so he drafted his will and endured patiently for the end.

"Uncle?"

He heard the king's young voice calling him, looking up and saw the king standing in the doorway, waving at him. He went to the boy with a smile, and the king took him by the hand and walked through the castle, passing the empty rooms not yet fully furnished, up the narrow, winding spiral staircase, and stopped at a door, where servants in royal liveries at the door pushed it open for them.

Memories raged as the door swung open, roaring at him, tripping him. The king held the door with one hand, catching him with the other, and lifted his eyes to look at him.

"Uncle, they told me my father died here. Is it so?"

The empty room was already furnished for the king's arrival. The brightest and most spacious room in the donjon was always reserved for the king. The woods crackling in the fireplace, the room so warm and dry, that the Duke couldn't tell whether he was in the present winter or that fatal summer nine years ago, with sweat oozing from the tip of his nose and his back. The king's bed was there, as in his recurring nightmares. It was there in the same place, the same bed, the same walnut frame with a feather mattress, pillows pilled high, the crimson curtain lifted, but he knew it was embroidered with antelopes, tree roots and the intricate crests of several families. He seemed to see a frail figure lying on the high pillows, the hand clutching his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath, and he could not resist the temptation of taking a step forward. But the ghosty figure on the bed was looking out of the window and he could not see his face.

"Uncle?"

He blinked, and the vision faded. The wood splintering in the fireplace, the cold wind blowing across the gallery, sobbing, the king's bed piled high with pillows, the bed empty. He looked down and saw the genuine curiosity in the king's eyes, the curiosity of a child, and it burnt him and bled him.

"Indeed," he answered, "the King your father, God assoil him, died here nine years ago."

In the room you now occupy, in the king's bed where you will sleep for the night, he forced himself to swallow the words, avoiding the king's eyes, the uncontrollable hatred swirling in his chest, almost making him blood-thirsty. He didn't know who he was hating, Harry or the King, or his former self. A jumble of memories swept through his mind, hundreds of needles stabbing at his aching head, and Harry turned his face in his direction, reaching out into the void.

"John, come."

He walked over to the bed, knelt down beside it and took Harry's hand, seeing his own reflection in Harry's eyes. But Harry's eyes were wide open and dull, and he groped for John's hand. Closer, Harry said, let them light the candles, it's too dark, I can't see you. Thhe room was as bright as day, shone with candlelight. He was kneeling beside Harry and looking at his own reflection in Harry's eyes, the candlelight shining like a thousand jewels in those hazel eyes, but Harry could not see him. He kneeled forward, grabbing Harry's hand and put it on his face. I'm here, Harry, tears sliding down his face, his voice trembled and broken, I'm here, Harry, look at me, I'm here. Harry's hand crossed the arch of his brow, and the rough calluses of his fingers grazed his forehead, resting on his cheek, almost tenderly wiping away the tears beneath his eyes. Don't cry, John, Harry said, fear not, God has summoned me, and you shouldn't grieve over it. But he sobbed under Harry's touch and couldn't speak, burying his face in Harry's hand and shaking his head desperately as Harry's fingers groped inch by inch across his face. Please, Harry said, John, I beg you, I know you love me, be good to my son. He looked up at Harry in stunned silence, the tears stored in his eyes slowly crossing his cheeks and resting briefly on his chin, drop by drop landing on his hand. Harry didn't hear from him for a long time, and seemed to grow anxious, grasping his hand eagerly as if to say something, but only managed to utter words blurred and incomprehensible, wheezing and coughing with agonizing pain. I promise you, he replied hastily, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Harry to smooth his breath, surprised at the emptiness in his arms. I promise you that I will protect him and be as loyal to him as I am to you.

He dropped his eyes to see the child, Harry's child, scanning the room before him with unabashed interest, realizing that he had lied to Harry: he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, be as loyal to anyone else as he was to Harry, even if that person was Harry's child. For Harry was dead, and he did not leave his like on earth, not even his child, who was quiet and weak, with light eyes and fair hair, looking more like his fickle mother than his great father.

He took his leave of the king, suddenly wishing that the old women's tale was true, that the dead did walk at places of their death. He wanted to see Harry, even if Harry would poke him in the forehead and ask him how he had gotten France into such a mess and he would be left speechless in front of him. But the tales were just lies to scare naughty children; the dead never appeared, but the living came in and out of his dreams. His wife's brother leaned close to him in his dreams, the Duke of Burgundy's acerbic face bore a look he knew well. He remembered the look. He remembered Harry lying on his back, his hands folded over his chest, his face frozen with an indifferent, icy look, with no heartbeat, and no longer breathe. He cried hoarsely at Harry's side, wishing he could die with him, but Burgundy took him by the wrist and dragged him away from Harry. Let's talk, Duke of Bedford, he said, his eyes betraying the hearty ecstasy he had tried to supress, but he tried hard to collapsed his face into a look of grief, and his face twisted as if he had a toothache. Let us talk.

He struggled to wake up from his dream, tears wetting his pillow and sweat soaking his shirt. The sky outside his window a pale purple, the sun not yet risen, the stars already dim. He remembered the ugly face of Burgundy in his dream. He had always known that Burgundy and Harry hated each other. Frankly, Harry was allied with Burgundy, yet frequently interfered and try to cultivate his own power in the Low Countries. Had he been in Burgundy's position, he would have hated Harry just as much. But he was not Burgundy, and he loved Harry, and therefore hated Burgundy's poise accordingly. But he supressed his anger. Harry said they must appease the Duke of Burgundy, so he liberally agreed to those outrageous demands proposed, and watched the almost overwhelming joy on the acrid face. He often thought afterwards of how Burgundy proudly departed, as if he had, upon seeing it, saw the future he was about to set out upon. The shadow of his dead brother looming over his head, Burgundy pressing and demanding, never satisfied, and he had to give in. He refused to give up Orléans to Burgundy, and look what it cost him! He retreated again and again, even giving Paris back to Burgundy of his own accord, and himself leading the English army back to Normandy. He repulsed the army of the Dauphin outside the walls of Paris and returned to Rouen, where he took to his bed, and in his unconsciousness heard a voice murmuring in his ear, repeating one sentence over and over again.

"What would Harry do be he still alive?"

He couldn't answer. He saw a familiar back in the void, saw Harry walking ahead of him, his scarlet robe trailing on the ground. He tried to catch up with Harry, shouting his name in desperate. But Harry turned his head, lowering his eyes and not looking at him, his face grave and sad. Go, John, Harry said, you should not be here, not now. Harry reached out at him, pushing him out of the void. He opened his eyes and found himself in Rouen, in Joyeux, Anne sitting beside him with swollen eyes.

He rose from the bed and went to the table by the window. As the sun rose, he looked out of the window of donjon and saw the capital slowly awakening, ready to receive their king. A white velvet case embroidered with a red cross was on the table, and he reached for it, untied the knot, and drew out a small diptych, which he opened and closed, looking at it in his hand in a daze, a drop of tear falling on the table without warning.

"Your son is to be crowned today," he whispered, murmuring in the complete silence of the room, "King of England and France. Is that not enough? What am I to do to..."

His voice trailed off. His questions unanswered, and the dead never wandered on the earth. The St. George in the painting lowered his eyes to the outsider, sword in one hand, the other stretched out in front of him, with an oval face grave and set in eternal sadness.

**The Song, _Preco Preheminencie,_ can be listened [here](https://www.binchoisconsort.com/internatus-mulierum-chant-and-dunstaples-preco-prehemineciae/)**

**Author's Note:**

> Before entering Paris Henry VI stayed for two nights in St. Denis, after his first entry into the capital he left the city and went to stay at Vincennes. Here I made a alternation with the timeline.
> 
> John Dunstaple's Preco Preheminencie: his only motet which made clear reference to contemporary events. The opening of the triplum, while describing the advent of St. John the Baptist, at the same time alludes to the arrival of the naval fleet to lift the French blockade of Harfleur. St. John's fifteenth century namesake acting as a herald (preco) in leading the English navy into victory and thus 'prepare a way' for his kingly brother. See Nosow, "Ritual meanings in the fifteenth century motet". It is also plausible that this was the song heard by Henry and Sigusmund in Canterbury upon hearing the English victory. For the inclusion of the Preco in Henry V's Chapel Royal also see Nosow.
> 
> St. George, Christ and Henry V: For the connexion between Bedford's veneration towards St. George and Henry V see BJH Rowe "Notes on the Clovis Miniature and the Bedford Portrait in the Bedford Book of Hours". According to his inventory Bedford also possessed a tiny diptych depicting the passions of St. George which he could carry with him. Contemporary's view regarding Henry and St. George can be seen from Henry's entry of London after Agincourt where he was greeted by the coat-of-arms of 'the King, St. George and the Emperor", the cult of St. George as 'Miles Christi' (also used to describe Henry himself) was greatly elevated in England by Henry V and his circle. In the Gesta Henrici Quinti, a Lancastrian Official Propaganda finished in Henry's own lifetime, the writer made deliberate attempt to link the image of the king with that of Christ.
> 
> The heiress of the Count of Hainaut: was no other than Jacqueline Countess of Hainaut who eventually became Humphrey of Gloucester's bride and damaged the Anglo-Burgundian alliance.
> 
> reminding the king roundly that his grant proved too shallow for the receivers' deeds: The receiver was Thomas Beaufort, then elevated to the Duke of Exeter. The Lords complaint that the £1,000 p.a. granted him was too small a prize for his great deeds in guarding Harfleur.
> 
> Extend his dominions: Bedford showed himself characteristic of younger sons by accumulating wealth for himself - to maintain his status, also. In 1427 he fell into a violent dispute with Salisbury over lands, which partly led to Salisbury later vetoing his suggestion of conquering Anjou but made for Orleans.
> 
> pillows pilled high: Lying flat on one's back in medieval minds was always associated with death, so people tend to make their pillows high and sleep in a near-sitting-up position.
> 
> Harry's words: adopted from Waurin: 'I pray you that out of all the loyalty and love that you have had for me, you may always be good and loyal to your nephew Henry.'
> 
> Harry and Burgundy: Henry's decision to shelter Jacquline and prompt her marriage with Gloucester greatly annoyed Burgundy. Apart from Jacquline Henry also made other moves in the Low Countries including quarrelling with the Prince of Orange. Burgundy's detachment during Henry's last illness and his immediate leaving France without attending the King's funeral greatly annoyed the English and may count for Gloucester's later malice towards him (See. Wylie)
> 
> He repulsed the army of the Dauphin outside the walls of Paris: actually the armies of Charles and la Pucelle retreated without a fight.


End file.
